Page 56 of Broken Halos
“Baby, it’s nothing bad,” Ollie rushed to clarify. “My secretiveness came from a place of humility and wasn’t intended to exclude you. Will you believe me?”
“Of course.” I wouldn’t give many people my blind trust, but I would him. “Tell me your big secret.”
“I have artwork on display at the museum tonight. In fact, I’ve submitted artwork for the past five events.”
“Ollie, that’s so exciting. Do you normally sell anything?” I asked.
“I…um…do okay.”
“You sell out, don’t you? I bet they eagerly wait to see your drawings.”
“Archie,” he said in a voice that pleaded with me to steer the conversation away from his success.
Ollie had once explained pastors of small, non-denominational churches like his often had to work part-time jobs to supplement their income, where larger churches supplied a salary and provided housing for their clergymen. Ollie had inherited his home and church from Randall, who’d bought the buildings with the income he’d earned from the farm where Millie still lived. I was stunned to learn those acres and acres of corn and beans belonged to her, and the bulk of Ollie’s annual income came from farming the land.
“I donate my proceeds from the art sale to charities or put it back into my church so we can do fun events, like the annual picnic at Kings Island amusement park.”
“Have I seen any of the art you’ve submitted?” I asked, changing the subject to something he would feel more comfortable discussing. “Are they nudes?” I asked in a scandalized voice.
“No,” he said. “I drew these especially for the event because I knew they’d be popular.” He sounded guilty like maybe he thought he was a sellout.
“Why do you sound ashamed? Isn’t the purpose of tonight to showcase LGBTQ artists who have art to sell?”
“Yes.”
“Why wouldn’t you bring something people would want to buy? Are you supposed to glue bubble gum wrappers onto canvas and hope someone will like it?”
Ollie snorted. “I guess you have a point.”
“What did you draw?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
The event at the museum looked like something out of Hollywood. Big floodlights illuminated the old, graceful building with the huge columns and grand steps leading up to the entrance. Photographers were on hand to take pictures of people on the red carpet after they entrusted their vehicles to the valets on hand. I loved posing with my Golden Boy and shamefully hoped our photo made it into the newspaper or the museum’s website. I chuckled to myself when I realized Ryder wouldn’t let it happen if he could help it.
Once inside, I was wowed again by the breathtaking grandeur of the ornate double staircase in the Great Hall. It wasn’t my first time at the museum, but it was my first high-society event there. Waiters wove throughout the crush of humanity dressed in beautiful gowns and formal tuxedos offering flutes of champagne, which Ollie and I both declined. Ollie didn’t drink, and I preferred beer.
“Let’s go explore. I want to see your art.”
“Okay, but please don’t make a big fuss.”
“Me? Excited to see something you created showcased in a such a grand setting? I can’t believe you think I’m going to make a big fuss.”
Ollie groaned but led me to the first painting in the far-left corner of the room. I couldn’t tell if there was a specific direction we were supposed to adhere to, but it looked like people casually strolled willy-nilly while taking in the art. The variety of submissions from the local artists were vast and jaw-dropping. The arrangement of artwork grabbed my attention and kept me interested in seeing what was next. Modern sculptures and paintings were sandwiched between the more traditional mediums like watercolor, oil paints, and charcoal sketches. They were so different but meshed together to form a beautifully diverse display of talent. It reminded me people could do the same when they put forth the effort.
I didn’t need to see the name placard on the easel to recognize my man’s work. “Ollie,” I said breathlessly. I stared in awe at the sketch of the Roebling Suspension Bridge, my eyes unsure where to look first because I was overwhelmed by its beauty. “This is stunning.”
“You know, many people think the bridge was built as a replica of the Brooklyn Bridge, but our bridge was actually constructed first. It opened to traffic on January first, 1867. Construction on the Brooklyn Bridge started two years later. Same civil engineer though.”
All Cincinnati natives knew that. “I see you are trying to deflect my attention away from your talent,” I teased. “Are you going to strike up a conversation about why the city used to have the nickname Porkopolis instead of the Queen City? Let me just look at this picture, Ollie. I promise not to run up to the top of the stairs and scream my boyfriend made the most beautiful piece of artwork here tonight.” Ollie groaned. I put my arm around his waist and pulled him closer so I could kiss his temple. “The drawing is almost as beautiful as you are, Golden Boy.”
“I must say, I was impressed when I first saw your submission,” said a new and unwelcome voice. We turned and looked at Ryder, who wore a light gray tuxedo and pale pink bow tie that complimented his blond looks. “In fact, this piece of art is the talk of the event. I expect it will sell for a handsome sum.”
“I hope so,” Ollie said, staring into my eyes. “I’m donating the sale proceeds to Ryan’s Place.”
“Ollie,” I said, sounding as stunned as I felt. “You can’t do that.”
“Of course, I can. It’s my art, and I can do whatever I want with it.”